


On This Winter's Night With You

by Avia_Isadora



Series: Elleth Lavellan [11]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Christmas Presents, Established Relationship, F/M, Forgiveness, Holidays, Older Characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:34:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22086451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avia_Isadora/pseuds/Avia_Isadora
Summary: Winter nights at Skyhold are long, broken by the feasts and holidays of Andrastean religion.  Thom Rainier has returned to the Inquisition just a few weeks before, his life given back to him.  He has enough to be grateful for without expecting any other present.
Relationships: Blackwall/Female Inquisitor, Blackwall/Female Lavellan
Series: Elleth Lavellan [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1566448
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	On This Winter's Night With You

The first winter in Skyhold they came from burning Haven, and it was shelter and respite for them. If the roof could be repaired, if the provisions could be stretched, it was enough to be thankful for.

The second winter in Skyhold is different. The Inquisition is a force now, and Skyhold is the citadel of a new power, one that has eclipsed the Grey Wardens and put a new king on the throne of Orlais. There are provisions aplenty ordered by Josephine, wood and wine stockpiled, and all laid in readiness for the deep snows that will close the passes after the turning of the year. They will celebrate winter nights with good meals, good cheer, and good company.

The Inquisitor has planned gifts for her friends. It’s an Andrastean custom, and she understands that people will expect it, just as they will expect the lavish feast in the great hall for all who live in Skyhold and its camp, as they will expect room and warmth for everyone when the snows come. Elleth doesn’t mind. There is a great deal to be thankful for at the moment. Corypheus was defeated at Adamant and she did not kill her lover, which is good enough for now. In the spring there will be Corypheus again and another campaign soon enough. Her lover is by her side, even if she can’t bring herself to call him anything except occasionally, quietly, my dear. There is quite a lot to celebrate. She has many people to be thankful to.

For Dorian there are two books ordered months ago from an agent in Antiva, books he has longed for and complained the lack of almost as long as she has known him, carried over land and sea and land again just for him.

For Cassandra there are rose-scented ointments and oils from Val Royaux, little luxuries that Leliana told her that Cassandra missed. It’s not escaped Elleth that Cassandra has a romantic side. Surely even the peerless Seeker could use a little comfort in private.

To Cullen she makes a gift of the finest Ferelden charger in the stable. People keep giving her horses and she does not ride, not except at the most sedate walk. A horse like that is wasted on her. Cullen is duly appreciative, and she knows he can’t wait to put the big chestnut stallion through his paces. He’d run out of the hall during dinner if it didn’t mean exercising in the dark.

Josephine has an inkwell with a handsome inscription on it, “to my spirit, the Inquisition’s indispensable ambassador, from the Inquisitor.” It’s the kind of thing Josephine prizes. Elleth can’t quite work out why, but it seems to give her pleasure.

Varric has a rather different gift, a set of playing cards commissioned from Dagna in light, flexible metal. They won’t burn and they won’t wear out and they won’t be ruined by the wet. He laughs and challenges her to a game of Wicked Grace tomorrow for certain.

The Iron Bull gets an enchanted belt large enough to hold up his huge trousers, and Solas is surprised by a blue stone she found in the Exalted Plains with a movement in it that looks as though somehow the sea was captured within it, a wave always on the verge of breaking.

And so on. She hopes she’s remembered everyone. She is grateful to so many.

There is one not mentioned, not toasted in mulled wine as everyone laughs and congratulates. She feels Blackwall’s eyes on her. But then he’s only been back two weeks. Probably there was no time to arrange gifts. Or perhaps she feels his life was gift enough. He says nothing.

It’s not until later, until the night is half-spent and she beckons him to come upstairs to her room, that he says anything. He locks the door at the bottom of the stairs, then follows her up. She draws the new curtains over the balcony doors, three sets of them. It helps to cut the chill in this room somewhat.

“I’m afraid I don’t have anything for you, my lady,” he says gruffly. 

“How would you?” She goes over to lay another log on the fire and poke it up a bit, but he’s there before her. He seems to think tending the fire is his job. “It’s not as though you were shopping in Val Royaux.”

He snorts, bending to put the logs on and close the screen that keeps them from rolling out onto the carpet if they break in the fire.

It’s a pleasure she’s been looking forward to all night. “But I have some things for you.”

“There’s no need…” he begins, but she’s already getting them out. 

“Your trousers are wretched,” she says, laying out a pair of fine-tailored black breeches in good wool. 

“Nothing wrong with them,” he says, though he fingers the fine wool appreciatively. 

“Nothing except smelling like stable and Orlesian prison and having holes in them big enough to stick your fingers through.” She holds up a fine shirt of white linen then, high-collared and plain. “And you need a new shirt. One that you can wear when you need to look presentable. And Dorian thought it would look well on you.”

His eyebrows rise, though it’s clear he’s not rejecting the shirt. “So Dorian’s in this?”

“I’ve certainly asked for Dorian’s advice on tailoring,” Elleth says primly. “And then there’s this.”

It’s a coat of fawn-colored shearling, double-breasted, long enough to fall almost to his knees, warm and elegant and just the sort of thing he needs for deep snow. It’s not gray. It’s not Orlesian blue. It’s something else entirely. He looks at it, saying nothing.

“I’d hate for you to freeze,” she says. Perhaps this is too needy, too greedy, too possessive to dress him this way. Or perhaps he hates the coat.

He caresses the front of it, the brass buttons. “Would you believe I used to be quite a dresser once?”

“I would,” she says. “You’re a handsome man.”

“And what’s this coat for then?” he asks. “Who is it for?”

“I asked Lammart that, when I ordered it,” she says. Too much. She’s saying too much, asking too much of something too fragile. “He said, ‘Why the Inquisitor’s Champion, of course!’ But that was just Lammart.”

He doesn’t look up from the coat. But his voice isn’t entirely regular. “A man would stay warm in a coat like that.”

“I hope so,” she says. A champion is a chevalier, a great lady’s personal knight. It’s everything a sell-sword in Orlais could aspire to and more, if you didn’t mind the great lady being an elvhen rogue. But then the Inquisitor is something different again. Elleth’s aware she’s holding her breath.

“I suppose it will come in handy, guarding you in weather like this.” He’s still looking at the coat, not at her.

She’s a fool to press it. It needs to be about business. “There’s these rumors out of Emprise du Lion, and if I have to go there in dead winter….”

“…you’ll need your champion,” he finishes. “So. Then.”

It’s not terribly clear who catches who in their arms, but somebody does, and she’s holding onto him as if she’s afraid he’ll disappear again. 

“I don’t deserve your trust,” he says, but he’s not letting go.

“I want you with me.” That’s all there is to say. It’s not about deserving. It’s about wanting. None of this has ever been about deserving. She hardly deserves to be Inquisitor.

At last she disentangles herself from him. “There’s one more thing.” She pulls out a neatly folded bundle. “I’m not sure you’ll like this at all, but Dorian….”

“What does Dorian think I need?” He’s looking at the bundle doubtfully, possibly because it’s scarlet.

“This.” She unfolds it and holds it up. It’s a floor-length robe in heavy Tevinter silk with gold embroidery and frogged buttons down the chest, broad shoulders and wide sleeves that fasten into narrow wristbands with the same gold buttons, comfortable and ornate at once. “Dorian said….” Well, Dorian said a lot of things, but none of them bear repeating.

He’s looking at it with an expression that suggests he’s dumbfounded. “Where would I ever wear that?”

“Tevinter. Or here.” She looks around the room. “Maybe.” It’s a ridiculous present. She told Dorian so. But she’s kept the green robe he looted for her in the Western Approach, and she’s actually gotten a second one. She won’t wear gowns like human women or city elves, and she won’t be caught dead in an Orlesian farthingale, but it is comfortable to wear something loose and flowing in her own room where nobody much is likely to see her. Staying in the formal dress uniform of the Inquisition in her room feels silly, and her old leathers and worn shirt are better suited to the woods than somewhere with carpets and a warm fire. “You certainly don’t have to wear it,” Elleth says quickly. “It’s a bit much.”

“I suppose I could try it on and see.” She can’t decide if he’s pleased or appalled, but he strips off neatly and quickly, pulling the robe on over his head practically as his breeches hit the floor. “I’ll need help with the buttons.”

“I see it’s difficult to do your own right wrist.” She does up the sleeves neatly, then the ones that close the placket over his hairy chest. 

He stands very still and very straight. “What do you think?”

She steps back, taking in the full effect. It’s a style suited to height, as Dorian well knows, and to vivid, dark coloring that won’t be washed out by the color. It makes his shoulders look even broader than they are, and the cut of it speaks of dignity and power. He looks like she imagines a Tevene magister looks, or perhaps a Tevene general at his leisure. His beard looks grave and serious, not like a fugitive hiding his face. The entire effect is stunning. “Dorian was right,” she says.

“This is what they wear in Tevinter?” He doesn’t sound displeased at all.

“I think this is what important men wear in Tevinter.” Important men who are as tall as Dorian and handsome, she thinks. Dorian knew exactly what would flatter. He’d wear this if he were two decades older.

He turns around, flexing his arms in the loose sleeves experimentally. “It’s comfortable.”

“I should think.”

He looks at her, smiling ruefully. “Who am I turning into?”

“I have no idea,” Elleth says. “But I like him.” She walks around him, looking at the back. “Next thing, you’ll be sleeping indoors.”

“I think I can make an exception for sleeping indoors when there’s two feet of snow on the ground,” he says. “I don’t think that makes me soft.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” she says, stepping closer and putting her hands on his scarlet silk chest. “Your lady is glad of the company. Since it’s cold.”

“You’ve changed too.” He tilts his head, considering. “Less angry. More dishonest.”

“I was always dishonest,” she says. “What do you think I have those lockpicks for? How do you think I get doors open in two minutes flat? It’s just that I’m stealing bigger things.”

“Kingdoms.”

“Whatever it takes.” She draws him down to her, her cheek against his face. “I need you,” she whispers. “Whoever you are.”

“You have me,” he says, and for a moment she can completely believe it again, completely believe that he won’t vanish with winter’s snow. But the pass is closed. Even if he leaves, it won’t be tonight. And maybe he won’t. Maybe he means it that he loves her, not just that she’s bought him now. Maybe he’ll stay bought. Or maybe he meant it all along, even when everything else he told her was a lie. 

He reads that in her posture, in something in her face, in something her breath, because he catches her closer, his hand on the back of her hair. “Maker’s balls, Elleth.” He doesn’t ask why she doesn’t entirely believe him. He knows.

But if they’re good to each other, if they’re good together, if these winter nights go on and on, she’ll stop missing him when he’s there. She’ll figure out what to call him. He’ll decide who he is. Or maybe events will take all the choices from them both. She knows one thing – they’ll tear every bit of meat from the bones of the moment. 

“You look handsome in scarlet,” she says, and leans into his embrace.


End file.
